


if dreams there be

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Post-Canon, Take Care of Your Beautiful Brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24719161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: It is somewhat incorrect to say that Aziraphale never slept. Sleep (well, the really good sort) is about as much of an indulgence as any other fine Earthly pastime. There had been nights, sated with fine wine and finer music, when Aziraphale had nodded off right there in the bookshop. In the absolute best of circumstances, Aziraphale was whisked away by something deep and dreamless.Dreamers often lie, after all.In which the World Does Not End, but Aziraphale cannot bring himself to rest.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 173
Collections: comfort fics





	if dreams there be

It is somewhat incorrect to say that Aziraphale never slept. Sleep (well, the really good sort) is about as much of an indulgence as any other fine Earthly pastime. There had been nights, sated with fine wine and finer music, when Aziraphale had nodded off right there in the bookshop. In the absolute best of circumstances, Aziraphale was whisked away by something deep and dreamless. 

Dreamers often lie, after all. 

It is perhaps more correct to suggest that Aziraphale never rested. No, even when recreating, Aziraphale’s mind whirred. He had barely thought one thought before he was racing off to the next. Had barely tasted a sweet confection on his lip before he was wandering away to the idea of the next one. Had barely spent five minutes in certain company before he was wishing he knew what would happen the next time. 

Had barely repented for one mistake before he was worrying about what he would do wrong next. 

It served him well, sometimes. Why, he had solved the puzzle of the lost Antichrist, hadn’t he? He was clever. Nothing wrong about that. And he didn’t really _need_ the rest, after all. He had the company of every book ever written and every sonata ever composed and every tart ever baked, and what if he missed something through the act of “pressing pause?”

Crowley knew this about Aziraphale, of course. He knew that the angel he loved had a brilliant, constant mind that needed constant feeding. He knew that Aziraphale needed to keep his mind in fighting shape, and Crowley, with his bickering and his questioning, was all too happy to be the whetstone to the blade of Aziraphale’s brain.

But Crowley was a dreamer himself. And he didn’t lie. Not when it came to Aziraphale. And the truth was…

Crowley was worried.

After the World Didn’t End, Crowley expected a break. Expected rest that was well worth it. Aziraphale did not seem to share his opinion. If anything, the angel seemed to be even more rapid of thought than usual. 

Crowley remembered briefly touching Aziraphale’s hand that afternoon at the Ritz. He remembered the angel’s surprised, sad, hopeful smile. He remembered the feel of Aziraphale’s hand softly vibrating beneath his.

They hadn’t touched since.

“Aren’t you tired?” Crowley finally asked one afternoon in the park. He had interrupted quite an intense diatribe of Aziraphale’s about the angel’s favorite bakery suddenly switching flours in their dough. Aziraphale spoke with his hands and he was all a flutter that afternoon. 

Aziraphale did not stop in his tracks at the blunt question. Aziraphale continued to stride forward with some mysterious purpose of which Crowley wished he knew. This wasn’t how he’d expected this chunk of time to go. Crowley had pictured languid, lazy mornings, afternoons, and evenings, all the time in the world to study the exact shade of Aziraphale’s eyes. 

If anything, he felt lonelier than ever, placing his head on his pillow every night, wishing that he understood why Aziraphale didn’t want to rest with him. 

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” Aziraphale asked back right away.

“I mean, you’re retired, angel,” Crowley shoved his hands deep into his pockets. It was easier not to want to grab Aziraphale’s that way. “Take a break. Go on holiday.”

_I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just do this one more thing with me, please._

“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I’m surprised at you. All the world before us and you’d really expect me to waste any of it by slowing down.”

“Waste” cut Crowley deeper than he knew he could still be cut. 

“Right,” he said, shortly. “I’m sorry for suggesting it.”

Crowley feigned checking his very expensive watch.

“Come to think of it,” he drawled with as much demonic slink as he could muster. “I’m overdue for a nap, so I guess I’ll be off. I’d hate to waste your time any further.”

And with a quick bit of magic, Crowley was in his own bed in the middle of the day, clenching his eyes shut tight to try to forget the hurt look on Aziraphale’s face.

When Crowley woke up several hours later, it was dark outside and his mobile was ringing. He groped for it on the nightstand, groaning as he did so. After saying something shitty to Aziraphale, he generally liked a longer sleep than this.

But who else could be calling him?

“It’s me,” came the wobbly voice on the other line.

“Aziraphale, I know.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“What is it, angel?”

“I… I don’t know how.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how to slow down.”

Crowley sat up in bed and rubbed at his temples. 

“And because I’m an expert on Sloth, you came to me?”

“Crowley, please. I’m terribly serious.”

“I’ll be right there.”

And he was. But not without a quick stop along the way.

Crowley pressed his hips against the door to the bookshop to let himself in. He didn’t have hands free, one being laden down with a large, pink box and the other with a little cardboard drink carrier, holding two lidded cups.

Aziraphale was standing in the center of the bookshop, hands clasped together. Crowley thought that he might have been pacing. 

“What have you got there?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley hated himself for the timidness in the angel’s voice.

“First of all, I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I’m sorry I snapped at you in the park. I know that’s not what you meant.”

Aziraphale dipped his head in that nervous way he did. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“And these,” Crowley held up his hands. “Are for tonight. If we’re not sleeping, we might as well really not sleep.”

And he flicked open the pink box to reveal three rows of gorgeous, iced doughnuts. 

“That said, this is decaf,” Crowley confirmed as he handed Aziraphale a cup. “We’re not 4000 anymore, after all.”

Aziraphale smiled a little at that. 

It was dark in the bookshop, Crowley noticed. As though Aziraphale had attempted to call it a night, shut everything off, but then decided better of it and lit several candles all around the room. Crowley flinched a little at the sight of them. He didn’t think he’d ever care for even the slightest sight of flames in that space ever again.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, standing there in the dim candlelight, clutching his cup. Crowley’s sharp eyes noted that the angel’s eyes trembled against the paper cup. Aziraphale’s eyes were trained on the cup, but they were wide and nervous. His left leg seemed to shake just a little as he stood there.

“What’s happening, angel?” Crowley asked, softly.

“I,” Aziraphale laughed a little after the first syllable, but it was a pained, choked thing. “I’m afraid I can’t convince my brain to be quiet, Crowley.”

Crowley cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale swallowed and closed his downcast eyes, hands shaking harder than ever. Droplets of coffee escaped the lid of the cup and dripped to the floor of the shop.

“What did you have for breakfast this morning, Crowley?”

Crowley shrugged. “Just some coffee. You know me, not much for eating.”

“Right. Of course,” Aziraphale smiled, sadly.

“Why? What did you have for breakfast, angel?”

“Well,” Aziraphale began. “At first I thought I might walk around the corner for a cup of tea and a pastry. But then I also thought that I could just easily have tea at home, and do I really need the pastry in the first place?”

Aziraphale paused and gestured to his stomach and before Crowley could cut in to argue that particular point, he was going on:

“And then I thought that perhaps I would just have an apple instead, but then the apple made me think of you again. And then I thought I might call you to join me for tea and a pastry, but oh, what if I’ve called you too often recently and you’ve become tired of me? And perhaps it’s my fault, because I haven’t told you that I love you yet, and perhaps you’re quite cross with me, and I couldn’t bear it if I was wrong about the way you feel about me, and then I thought perhaps I could cook myself breakfast, it wouldn’t be that hard, humans do it all the time, but then what would I make? Could I miracle myself the ingredients? Are They still watching for frivolous miracles? And what would I make, Crowley?”

At this point, Crowley had crossed the room to take Aziraphale’s jittering cup away from him and to hold the angel’s shaking hands in his. Crowley sucked in a deep, purposeful inhale and squeezed Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale followed his example and drew in a shaky breath.

“And that’s just breakfast,” Aziraphale concluded, still not meeting Crowley’s gaze.

Crowley felt worn out just from listening. He pulled Aziraphale against him and hugged the trembling angel tightly, stroking up and down his back.

“Has it always been like that?” Crowley asked against Aziraphale’s hair.

“In some form or fashion,” Aziraphale confessed. “But it’s been so much worse recently, my dear.”

Aziraphale pulled himself away and finally looked up into Crowley’s eyes. He looked miserable.

“Crowley, I know this sounds frightfully stupid, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to do something terribly wrong. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about everything. I can’t stop fretting that I’m going to do the wrong thing. That I already have done every wrong thing.”

“I don’t think you can do the wrong thing, remember?” Crowley said, gently, heart aching as he started to understand Aziraphale’s pain.

Aziraphale laughed again, and this time it transformed into something like a sob. 

“I’m still so afraid, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped. “I’m afraid and I’m ashamed and I just feel as though, if I slow down, if I stop, then someone will come for us. Someone will come for you. Someone will hurt you. I have to stay awake so that you can sleep, my dear heart. I have to do one thing right by you, finally, please-”

Crowley yanked Aziraphale against him again, more fiercely this time.

“Shut up,” Crowley growled in Aziraphale’s ear. “First off. Shut up about doing one thing right by me. You’re all that’s right about me, angel, do you understand?”

Aziraphale shook, but he nodded. Crowley loosened his grip into something softer.

“Our Side, remember?” he whispered. “We don’t do this on our own anymore. We do this together. We do all of it together. I don’t want to be awake if you’re not with me, and I don’t want to sleep if you’re not with me.”

Aziraphale buried his face deeper against Crowley’s chest. Crowley petted his cloud-soft hair.

“What do you want, angel?”

Aziraphale pulled away softly, his eyes red with tears. 

“I want so many things,” he murmured, bringing one hand up to Crowley’s face. Crowley sighed at the contact. “I don’t know where to begin. I don’t want to be wrong.”

Aziraphale slid his other hand up to Crowley’s face, cupping the demon between his soft hands.

“Help me, Crowley.”

Crowley kissed him. 

Crowley kissed him hard and soft and definitely. Aziraphale’s fingers slipped off of Crowley’s face as the angel let go and fairly melted in Crowley’s arms. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist to keep him upright. When Aziraphale briefly pulled away to try to apologize for something, for everything, Crowley just shook his head fiercely and kissed him again.

Because he didn’t have the right words to explain why Aziraphale didn’t need to apologize to him. He didn’t know what to say to calm Aziraphale’s frantic mind. He didn’t know how to suck out all the poison of his angel’s worry-wounds. Crowley was just a jangly, skinny broken heart with kisses and doughnuts to offer.

Sometimes all you can do is love someone.

Crowley took Aziraphale by the hand and led him gently to the sofa.

“Lie back, angel.”

Aziraphale looked relieved for the instruction and did as he was told. He was still quivering all over, tears still sparkling in his beautiful eyes. Crowley crouched down beside him, never letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley leaned forward just enough to place a soft kiss on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Can you close your eyes, my heart?”

Aziraphale nodded and did. Crowley kissed him again. 

“You’re safe,” Crowley murmured. “We’re safe. I love you and you love me. We can think about everything else in the morning, yeah?”

Eyes shut tight, Aziraphale nodded. He squeezed Crowley’s hand.

They didn’t sleep that night. They held hands and Crowley kissed Aziraphale and sometimes Aziraphale bolted upright in a panic and Crowley gently guided him back down again and sometimes (Satan forgive him) Crowley even sang little warbled bits of songs at Aziraphale He sang creaky little lullabies to this exhausted being whom he loved so dearly. 

“ _Love of my life, can’t you see?_ ”

(Even lullabies turn into Queen eventually.)

Mostly they reminded one another to breathe, there in the still darkness. 

The next morning wasn’t the languid, lazy, romantic morning of Crowley’s dreams. Over miracled-to-new-freshness doughnuts, they talked. They talked and they listened and they cried and they breathed. They held hands and they came up with something like a plan for how to help Aziraphale. I won’t tell you all the specifics. It really isn’t any of my business.

There would be time enough for the languid, lazy, romantic morning of Crowley’s dreams. There would be time for sleeping past sunrise and waking one another up with kisses and caresses. Time for making coffee well past noon and drinking it together inside a sunbeam, not having even gotten dressed yet. Time for plucking a flower from a shared garden and setting it down on top of an oft-read book. Time for _I love you I love you I love you._

Because, much like the entire world, it was the sort of thing worth fighting for. 

We can’t give up now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. You're doing so super good.


End file.
